


The Old King's Sorrow

by bluetoast



Series: The Jotun and the Widower [7]
Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Casket of Ancient Winters, Gen, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Laufey is not amused, Laufey's Good Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Laufey is thankful that Asgard has returned the Casket of Ancient Winters, something about it doesn't seem quite right. It's not like Odin to just return things he'd stolen. </p>
<p>Written for hc_bingo - Arrest</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old King's Sorrow

It made no sense. That was all that Laufey could think as he gazed, slightly transfixed on the Casket of Ancient Winters, finally returned to its proper place in Utgard's temple. Already the walls had begun to reform in their long lost former glory. Despite the thousand-year absence, the Casket remembered, it always knew, and she had started her work the moment she touched the pedestal on which she stood. The realm was rejoicing and all their king could do was worry. The way that King Odin had just handed her back to him, no demands, no conditions, their greatest treasure was just returned to them as if she were no more than a toy belonging to a toddler that had been taken away for a day or two. 

Something was wrong and why did no one but him see it?

The Casket had been returned shortly after that dark-elf attack on Asgard, roughly a year ago. He could remember a rather vague report about it; the elves had been seeking to kidnap the Allfather's grandson and had been thwarted by a servant, or something of that nature.

The missives relating to the attack were almost as unclear as the reason Odin had given the Casket back. He glanced towards the ceiling, thinking of the Guardian of Asgard, watching him for a moment then shifting his gaze elsewhere. Heimdall would not mention his state to the Allfather. A brooding, old, jotun king was insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. 

The actions of Asgard were too little too late in Laufey's mind. That fateful battle had cost him more than he could possibly hope to regain. This temple had been left in ashes and mounds of rock; and his newborn son, tucked away for his safety, had been crushed and his body never recovered. 

His Loptr. 

His eldest had been so small, so fragile; like the sweet light-elf that had been his mother. She had been cast out of Alfheim, for her far too forward thinking and a particularly heartless cousin who had stolen her father's home and lands, when she was an only child and while most would think that the land was rightfully hers, the cousin seemed to think because he was a man, it should come to him – and he had dispatched with the proper heir before the law could intervene. Inheritance law was a tricky slope, and, had Loptr lived, that estate would now rightfully belong to _him._

Laufey hoped that if that elf wasn't dead, he would be soon, preferably in a painful and or embarrassing way. 

Lidia had died giving birth to their child, the stress of war and fear of the unknown had done more damage than her labor had. She had died in his arms, with their child, his heir, howling with a powerful set of lungs that told his father not to judge him by his small size; the next king of Jotunheim was a survivor. 

But Loptr could not survive under tons of crushed rubble and a burning fire; he had died alone and Laufey often hoped that his babe had slept through the entire assault, slipping into the world of the dead and into his mother's waiting arms just as if it were a dream.

It would not be too much longer before he would join his beloved and their babe, and he could go to his grave knowing that the Casket was were it belonged, and Jotunheim was secure.

Something ran smack into his leg and he looked down to see the small daughter of the Svartalfheim ambassador getting to her feet. Her name was Dahlia, some flower that grew elsewhere in Yggdrasil. She returned his gaze, blushing slightly. “I'm sorry, your majesty, I didn't mean to...” She fell silent as he smiled.

“It is perfectly fine, little one. Ice can be quite slippery and I imagine you do not have much practice walking on it.” He crouched down to her level. She was roughly six hundred years of age, somewhere between little girl and young woman. “Has your father turned you into his messenger?”

Dahlia shook her head. “No, your majesty. He's still speaking with his grace, Crown Prince Byleistr.” She blinked and adjusted her hold on the sketchbook in her arms, studying his face. “You have a sad look on your face.” 

He gave a soft chuckle and smiled. “Is this better?”

The girl gave him a perfectly exasperated look that told him she wasn't fooled by his attempt in the slightest, and was debating if it was safe to humor him or not. She tilted her head to the side and leaned closer. “You sort of look like Mister Loki, except bigger.” 

“Mister Loki?” He replied, curiously. “Who's that?”

“He's a jotun who lives on Asgard. He owns an ice cream parlor with a dark-elf named Miss Ursa. Papa says that they both used to be slaves, but they aren't anymore. King Odin freed Mister Loki after he saved Prince Vakur's life, and then Mister Loki freed Miss Ursa by selling his horns.” She hiccuped. “I don't think it's just because you're both jotuns that you look alike.” She stepped back and flipped through a few pages in her book. “Oh, where is it?”

Laufey kept his face blank as she searched, slightly unnerved by her words. He knew that when the war had ended, several warriors were taken from Jotunheim as prisoners, but none of the small ones had been taken. They had been hidden, protected from the Æsir warriors; in hindsight, he had often wished he had sent Loptr with them, but he'd trusted that the temple would be left in peace. A vain wish if ever there was one. “Do you know how old this Mister Loki is?”

“He's not that old. Miss Ursa's older. Papa says it's rude to ask grown ups how old they are.” She paused. “Mister Loki has two little girls. Mirjam and Röskva. He let me hold the baby. She's really pretty.” 

“So Mister Loki is married, then? He and Miss Ursa?” A niggling feeling was starting in the back of his mind.

“No, they're just friends. I think the same person used to own both of them.” She turned another page. “Oh, here it is!” She held the book out. “That's Mister Loki.” 

Laufey took the small book in his hand and studied the picture. A jotun resting against a counter of some kind, with dark hair that was pulled back into a braid. His face was sad, but smiling. A face he knew all to well; for Laufey had seen it in the mirror countless times before – in his own reflecting glass. He kept his voice even as he spoke. “Might I keep this, child?”

“Of course, your majesty.” She took the book back and carefully tore out the sketch, giving it to him. “I'm sorry, it's sort of small.” 

“That's perfectly fine.” He gave her another smile. “If you'd like to sketch in the temple, I will give word that you are not to be disturbed until it's time for dinner.” 

She bobbed a curtsey. “Thank you, your majesty.” 

“You're welcome.” He rose to his feet and walked back towards the citadel, a sick, burning feeling starting to fill him. 

One thousand and eighty-eight years. 

That was how long he had mourned the death of Loptr.

And for all those years, all those tears he had shed, his agony, his sorrow – it was all for naught. 

For his baby had been alive all this time, held captive by Asgard. 

Now it made sense as to why Odin simply gave the Casket back. The fear that he might discover what had happened to his son outweighed keeping the most powerful weapon of the Jotun. He would not risk war for the answers he desperately needed, but at the same time, he wanted answers. He wanted to know what utter bastard had stolen his child and sold him into a life of slavery. As much as Laufey's heart wanted to rejoice that his babe had not died, part of him wished that was still the truth. Slavery was an unimaginable horror to him and the unknown of what had happened made him sick. 

As he made his way back to the citadel, he glanced skyward, towards Asgard, towards the guardian he knew had to be watching. “This is not over, King Odin. Do not think that returning the Casket makes everything fine.”


End file.
